


The Difference Between You And I Is Thinner Than A Razor

by collectingnames



Series: Fjorclay Week [4]
Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: AU, Blood and Injury, Body Horror, M/M, The Blooming Grove, class swap, cleric fjord, curses as magical chronic illness, fjorclay week, warlock caduceus
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-23
Updated: 2020-04-23
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:35:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23697076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/collectingnames/pseuds/collectingnames
Summary: The Blooming Grove was lost twenty years and so was its keeper.  Until by chance both of them are found in the last place anyone would think to look.----------------Caduceus stops for the night near the Labendas Swamp, the town is ‘shabby’ to be polite, brackish water creeping through the floors of several buildings.  He’d poked his head into a tavern and promptly decided against it at the mildew smell that clung onto every part of the room.  Though finding someplace to camp for the night is far from a pleasant experience.
Relationships: Caduceus Clay/Fjord
Series: Fjorclay Week [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1710829
Comments: 6
Kudos: 64





	The Difference Between You And I Is Thinner Than A Razor

**Author's Note:**

> Heya! Assume that everyone's stats have been properly shuffled to have their new classes make sense. More specifically Caduceus is an undying warlock and Fjord is a tempest cleric. They're also both pretty low level, about level 2-4. Also, I stole that Caleb line because fuck it, he says some raw ass shit sometimes and I'm gonna use it.
> 
> Various Spells Used:  
> Arms of Hadar (on the bandits)  
> Prestidigitation (chill the weapons)  
> Spare the Dying (stabilize Fjord)  
> Light (on Fjord's staff)  
> Create or Destroy Water (for the very important task of making tea)
> 
> EDIT (6/26/20): I'm currently working on an outline to continue this fic, I want to get a couple of chapters done before I start posting. I can't make any guarantees at present when this will pick back up but I wanted to make it known that it's in the works.

Caduceus stops for the night near the Labendas Swamp, the town is ‘shabby’ to be polite, brackish water creeping through the floors of several buildings. He’d poked his head into a tavern and promptly decided against it at the mildew smell that clung onto every part of the room. Though finding someplace to camp for the night is far from a pleasant experience. The ground is far too wet for him to try and pitch camp, not without some sort of treated canvas or something of the like to put under himself. So that leaves either turning around back towards town or finding a tree he can sleep in. Nothing is _forcing_ him to spend the night in the swamp itself, he doesn’t _have_ to stay here, he can just basically go anywhere except North. Or at least that’s the lie he’s telling himself.

Exhaustion has settled deep into his bones, he’s been going for too long and it shows. His joints are screaming for him to stop already, even if he did find a tree branch sturdy enough to support his weight he probably wouldn’t be able to climb up. There’s an eternal tightness in his chest from a cough he wants to let out but can’t quite manage it. Sleeping on the ground isn’t exactly going to help either. But town hardly strikes him as a better option. It’s not as if anyone there could help him.

After trudging through the brackish water for… hours? Probably? He got lost in his own thoughts ages ago. The water is finally starting to seep through the thick, well-worn leather of his boots. But a shape disrupts the skeletal silhouette of the trees. In his outstretched hand, energy crackles around his knobbly fingers, the color of sun-bleached bone. The sight of it makes his skin crawl. He can still remember trying to copy his father’s spellcasting, never quite managing it, nothing he did could even be counted as a cantrip, only enough to make magical light swirl around his palms. Back then his magic was colorful, a swirling kaleidoscope that reminded him of the moss and mold growing on the rotting tree trunks of the Savalirwood just outside the gates. But letting his gaze rise back up to eye level the crackling eldritch energy casts just enough light to make out a ruined building, abandoned and decrepit. 

And he’s right, the place is almost unliveable, the entire first floor flooded but he manages to find and navigate the crumbling stairs up to the second. The dilapidated space is blissfully dry and the floorboards don’t creak _too_ much when he takes a step.

He digs his bedroll out of his pack and throws it down to the floor, “Thank the Wildmother.”

He digs some rations out of his bag, just some jerky that’s so fucking tough it makes his jaw ache to try and take a bite but he slowly manages to get the whole thing down. The exterior wall is pretty battered, sitting down cross-legged he can look out through the hole in the wood to look out over the swamp. The sounds of nocturnal creatures prowling the night below make his ears twitch. When sleep comes it isn't peaceful, but it's there and he'll take what he can get.

He's woken up some nebulous amount of time later by screaming. He springs up and ready to his feet, snatching up his sword from where it pokes out of his bag. No one else in here with him, that he can see. Another scream, this time coming more clearly from outside. Poking his head out of the gaping hole in the wall he spots the source. There's a man with crystal-topped quarterstaff backed up against a tree, holding out said staff to try and fend off the bandits cornering him. He runs down back the way he came, trying as hard as he can to be silent and not cause anything louder than the screams outside. Coming out almost directly behind the screaming man, he unleashes a bolt of eldritch energy at one of the bandits. It catches him square in the center of his chest and knocks him down into the muck. The man addresses him but he isn't paying enough attention to tell what exactly he's saying. He looms over the remaining three, more of the eldritch energy arching back and forth across his fingers.

"Move along," he commands, speaking in a gravelly tone from the bottom of his throat.

"Fuck off, this doesn't have anything to do with you," one of them shouts back.

"It does now," he unleashes the next bolt at his head.

The bandits, as to be expected, turn their focus onto him. And it quickly becomes clear that he isn't very experienced in combat. It takes hardly any time at all for the tables to turn against him. One of the bandits grabs him by a cord in his armor and uses it to throw him down into the muck. He tries to pull himself back up but immediately gets a boot in the face. On the next blow, he grabs the offender's ankle before it makes contact. And then a resounding **_THWACK_ **rings out above his head. The man comes into view, swinging his staff with abandon. The bandits are forced back just long enough for him to get back up to his feet, spitting out some blood from where he bit down too hard on the inside of his cheek when he got kicked. They go straight into whaling on the two of them. Any advantage the initial surprise gave him is gone now as the remaining bandits gang up on him. They have surprisingly good aim, getting blows into the gaps in his armor. He pushes the man out of range and casts a proper spell, something strong enough to hopefully end this already. Inky dark tendrils rise out of his shadow and grab the bandits, all of them crying out as the necrotic energy seeps into them. The poison-like effect seems to take hold of them all.

He turns his back to address the man, "Are you okay?"

The man's eyes go wide and he tackles him out of the way, "Watch out!"

The man collapses to the ground in front of him as a crossbow bolt lodged in his back. He charges the remaining bandits.

With some muttered words and the tracing of a sigil in the air he chills the grips of all their weapons, startling them, the youngest looking one outright drops his hand crossbow. He picks his head up to stand at his full height and the bandits start to back off, " **Run**."

They're gone before he can even finish getting the single word out.

He turns his attention back to the downed man on the ground behind him. With more effort than he would have guessed it would take he pushes him onto his side. Putting his hand underneath the man's nose he can feel warm puffs of breath. Okay, alive, still alive, that's good. He stands back up and tries his best to brush the worst of the muck off himself. Then he unclasps the man's now torn cloak and freezes when he sees the brooch clipping it, a lovingly crafted symbol of the Wildmother. He pockets it and bends down to better inspect the wound. The bolt doesn't look _too_ deep but he never got the chance to learn much about medicine. Still, he needs to decide between removing the bolt to try and heal the wound a little or leave it in to keep everything where it's supposed to be. Moving him is going to be tricky if he can't drag him along his back.

With a sigh, he grips onto the bolt with one hand and braces his other hand on his back for leverage.

He gives himself a count, "1...2...3!"

Luckily the bolt comes out with one try and in one piece. He tosses it aside and applies pressure as blood starts to seep out. Another jolt of magic shoots through his hands and the bleeding stops, his breath evens out but the wounds don't close and he doesn't wake up, it just stabilizes him but it's better than nothing. He sighs and throws the man's bag over his shoulders before grabbing his hands and dragging him into the ruins.

He struggles but manages to drag him up to the drier second floor. The man's back is just soaked and he throws a blanket over him to keep away the chill. Once he has the man situated he sits in the corner and takes out the brooch from his pocket. It's made mostly of copper and instead of sheaves of wheat, seaweed forms the outer ring and an anchor in the place of a shepherd's crook, a blue crystal with a swirl carved into it is set into the center. It's not a version of Her symbol he's ever seen before. He sits there and traces the metal, considering maybe, well, maybe he could just take it. Not that he's going to but the temptation gnaws at him. With a grunt, he pulls himself up to his feet and goes back over to the unconscious man to investigate him a little more thoroughly.

His graying black hair is in a long, falling-apart braid with the sides shaved. The braid itself is long enough to make him wonder exactly how long it takes to grow it out that long. He has tusks poking out past his bottom lip, and, well, they seem a little small for an adult half-orc but maybe it has something to do with how they're chipped. In all honesty, he doesn't know what vitiligo looks like for half-orcs but maybe that's what's going on with the lighter yellow-green that starts halfway down his face and disappears underneath his collar. The sparse armor he wears is piecemeal but the wave-like spirals catch his eye and...barnacles? Green barnacles stud his armor, cresting over the pauldron. He pauses, glances down at the dead lichen that crusts his own armor, thinks back to the moss that grows on Calliope's. What the fuck is a cleric of the Wildmother doing brazenly wearing her symbol in the depths of the Empire?

The man groans and slowly rolls over and rises onto all fours, arms unsteady underneath him as they try to support his weight, "Where am I?"

Caduceus backs away, "Labendas Swamp, more or less the same place you clonked out in."

"Thank you, I didn't think there would be anybody in here," he puts a black-clawed hand to his chest and coursing golden light flows into his chest, sighing as his wounds stitch themselves back together.

"Had to deal with whatever was waking me up," he brushes it off.

The cleric puts out a hand for him to shake, "I'm Fjord, by the way."

He takes it, "Clay."

"Nice to meet you, Clay."

Fjord pats across his shoulders, going bug-eyed, "Where's my cloak?"

"It was all torn up, shoved it into your bag."

He wildly scans the room before catching sight of his bag, running over to it and pulling out the tattered cloak but it doesn't reveal what he was looking for. He clears his throat, "Um, I uh, I had a brooch? Copper with a crystal? It's very important."

He holds it up between his index and middle finger, "This?"

He lunges to snatch it back.

Caduceus just lifts his arm up over his head out of reach, "What are you doing here?"

"Give it back!"

"Answer my question, altar boy."

"Why do you want to know?"

"I'll drop it," he shifts to hold it between his fingertips.

"No you won't."

"Tell me why you're here," he visibly loosens his grip.

Fjord deflates, "I was sent to look for the Blooming Grove."

Surprise hits him so hard he unthinkingly drops the broach.

" _Shit!_ " Fjord scrambles and just barely manages to catch it.

He shakes his head as if the words are clinging to his skin, "No, it's pointless. Nobody's there. It was lost to the blight twenty years ago. You're too late."

"How do you know that?" His voice goes breathy and awed.

"Rumors, you hear things, especially further up North," he lies.

Fjord doesn't buy it, "I'm not a fool, Clay."

Caduceus's stomach sinks as the look of realization snaps onto Fjord's face, the pieces snapping into place.

"What are you doing here? What happened? You said a blight? Are you-? Where's the rest of your family? Why are you alone?" He bombards him with questions.

He snaps and grabs him by the front of his armor, " **Who sent you?** "

Fjord freezes, Caduceus's grip lifts him and his toes just brush the floor, "I, shit uh, the Dusts, they sent word that something was wrong and Lightkeeper Gladys asked if I was traveling up this way and I accepted. The Dusts said that one of the Clays was supposed to send a message but one never came. Just, they just wanted to try and get someone to check on the Grove."

He lets go and backs away a step, "Well there, you know what's going on now. You can go back, fucking leave."

Fjord grabs his forearm before he can keep rambling, "Show me."

"What?"

"Take me there. I want to see it."

"It's too dangerous."

"Is it too dangerous or are you just scared?"

He shoves him to the ground, _"You don't know anyth-!_ "

His chest constricts and he can only get about half a normal breath with each inhale, eyes watering. There's thick purple-black ooze crawling up his throat, he can feel it threatening to spill into his mouth. He braces himself against the wall and covers his mouth with his hand, attempting deep breaths through his nose, get his heart to stop thrumming against his ribs like a trapped hummingbird.

"Are you-?" 

He shakes his head, "No, just, just give me a minute. It-it'll pass."

Fjord hesitates but then he puts a hand between his shoulder blades and just rubs his back, "Take your time."

He lets the wall take more of his weight and just stands there in silence as he works on getting his lungs back in order. Tries to tell himself that he doesn't like being touched. After what must be several minutes he finally feels strong enough to stand back up of his own accord.

He wipes his mouth off on the back of his hand, voice soft, "I'll take you."

With sunrise comes their departure. Every ounce of him wants to get out of this swamp. Luckily, Fjord's managing to hold his tongue and not pry any further about himself. And seemingly trying to make up for unintentionally prying into Caduceus's past the night before. He makes up for it by filling the bouts of awkward silence with oversharing, some of it catches his attention but he's having trouble focusing.

Caduceus tries to actually participate in the 'conversation', "Why's your symbol sea-themed? Can't say I've really met any of Her followers outside of my family."

"Well, I'm from the coast, the more relevant nature is the ocean. She's the goddess of nature, not land. There is a bit of a presence there, with the Mother's Lighthouse and all," he laughs at the memory, "I'm sure that Vandran was pretty irritated that the holy types got me before he could."

"Vandran?" 

"Oh, my captain, I uh, I don't know where he is anymore. There was a shipwreck."

"Sorry. I thought you said 'the holy types' got to you before he did," he presses.

"They did, but becoming a cleric doesn't exactly forbid you from stepping foot on a boat. I just came back and asked if he wanted to add a chaplain to his crew."

"And he just said yes?"

"Well I had to prove I was a capable sailor first but he was glad to take me on."

They lapse into silence again shortly after that. It's surprisingly easy to be quiet with him, somehow it never feels awkward to silently absorb each other's presence.

The next day brings them to the edge of the Savalirwood. The darkness beyond the trees is impenetrable. He can't see more than five feet past the treeline. It's a chilling sight, the trunks and boughs are all rotted with strange purple-black moss. But he still feels the blight calling, the temptation to lay down in the decay and be consumed.

Fjord seems to notice his reaction, “Is it safe for you to go in there?”

“Safest place I can be.”

He clenches his jaw, shuts his eyes, takes Fjord’s hand, and leads the way into the Savalirwood. The darkness isn’t so severe once within the forest’s clutches. Having someone else with him helps drown out the thoughts. An altered instinct within him yearns to just find some cool dirt and be claimed by the earth, to rejoin the decay and lose himself in it.

Fjord squeezes his hand, “Clay?”

He grips back, “I’m here, I’m here, just,” he takes a second to look around, he must have been walking much faster than he realized, “we’re not that far, come on.”

He hesitates, “Okay.”

Caduceus is painfully aware of how close they are to the Grove. It won’t be long before he can see the overgrown gates, consumed by ivy and moss. The thought crosses his mind that in the intervening twenty years since he had to flee that the blight may have completely consumed everything, making ruins of the temple. The headstones are probably consumed, and the plants that grow from them choked out by the blight. Fjord suddenly lets go of his hand.

Panic he couldn’t have anticipated hits him. But Fjord reappears, seemingly having let go to rush past him, having caught sight of something in the distance. He taps the yellow crystal in his staff and light pours from it. The crumbling, horribly rusted gate dully reflects the yellow glow through the grime.

“Don’t get so excited, there are still two more gates,” Caduceus holds himself sideways to slip through the busted bars.

Fjord follows suit, “Why are there three gates?”

“Tried to keep the blight out. Stopped being effective at a certain point,” he chuckles to try and relieve the tension building in him as they get steadily closer to his home.

The first gate was practically nothing when they found it, the metal already warped and consumed for so long, pretty much his whole life. At the second gate it’s slightly harder trying to find a spot that’s destroyed enough to slip through easily. But the last gate, the last gate, has withheld fairly well. Moss and ivy covers it like it covers everything else but the metal underneath hasn’t degraded too much. With Fjord close behind he walks along the fence looking for the actual gate.

He goes to push the gate open, the lock surely so worn at this point that they shouldn’t have to worry about it, but stops, “You do it.”

“Are you sure?”

He nods, “Please.”

He doesn’t let go as he pushes open the creaking cast-iron gate. In his mind’s eye Caduceus can paint over the ruin before him with his childhood home. He can see where he stood the last time he said goodbye to his mother and his aunt, then his father, then his brother and sisters. Fjord keeps glancing nervously in his direction, but he tentatively takes the few steps to come home. 

Unthinkingly he follows the paths of his memory to the temple and steps over the crumbled threshold. It’s a weird little thing, but for some reason, it feels important. The cupboard door hangs precariously on its hinges. And inside four chipped porcelain teacups sit nestled one on top of the other. A frantic laugh bubbles past his lips.

“What is it?” Fjord’s voice from behind him is accompanied by the sound of rubble crunching underfoot.

“I only have four cups,” he laughs a little harder.

Just by the tone of his voice Caduceus can tell he’s uneasy, “I take it you’re supposed to have more?”

He nods yes and goes to shut the decrepit cabinet. Just for the door to fall off its hinges and clatter to the floor. His breath hitches on the start of a sob. He digs his fingers into his hair, taking deep breaths in a likely futile attempt to keep himself from getting too worked up. An arm wraps around his waist and coaxes him away from what used to be the kitchen. The arms carefully take a hold of his wrists and eases his hands back down, squeezing them for reassurance.

“Clay?” Fjord asks tentatively.

He nods in acknowledgment.

His imploring gaze is there to meet him when Caduceus brings his head up to look at him, “I need you to explain what happened. Can you do that?”

“I-,” she takes another deep breath, “yes, just. I need to do something, with my hands, make some tea, just, I need to calm down.”

Fjord takes the canister he pulls out of his pack from his shaking hands and hands him a length of copper wire from his own bag, “Let me? I think you need to sit down. Just, try twisting that around your fingers.”

He nods.

Caduceus clumsily kicks away some debris and sits down against the wall, knees curled up to his chest. He dimly listens to Fjord rummaging for a teapot and muttering something that fills the old clay pot with water. And by the time he comes back with two cups of tea, he feels a little more like himself. With a muttered ‘thank you’ he takes a sip. It's, um, amateur to be polite but beggars can’t be choosers. All that matters is that it’s hot and he can hold it close to his chest and pour his focus into that sensation.

Fjord puts a hand on his shoulder, “Do you think you can tell me what happened? I’m sorry to press, but I can’t do anything if I don’t know.”

“Of course,” he takes another sip and it’s so strong and bitter that he cringes, “Sorry about my um, my everything. I’ve been pretty rude.”

“Back at the swamp, yes, but don’t get too hard on yourself.”

He clears his throat, “What happened.”

“Yes?” seeing it first hand lends solemnity to his responses but that spark of raw curiosity is still there.

He tips his head back against the wall and keeps his eyes closed as he recounts the story, “The Savalirwood was infected with blight ages ago. I can’t quite say I remember a time it wasn’t infected. Over time it crept closer and closer, generally got more severe. So my family started leaving. Some in pairs, some by themselves. Trying to find a cure for the blight. And then I was the only one left. I had to stay behind and protect the Grove. I failed. I failed, I couldn’t do it. The blight overran the Grove. And I tried to destroy it, fight it off, anything, anything I could try but nothing worked and-.”

He brushes his hand along the dead lichen clinging to his armor so that it comes off on his fingers and gestures for Fjord to give him his hand. The lichen turns bright pink again as he tips it out of his hand and into Fjord’s palm.

“I’m uh, I’m a little dead I think. The blight got me when I was trying to fight it off. I made a pact to halt it, but it’s still in me. I don’t know what my patron wants, it hasn’t asked for anything yet. I don’t know. I don’t know, Fjord. I haven’t known for a long time. But uh, just now and back in the swamp, if I get too agitated sometimes the blight digs its claws in,” he explains.

“We can fix this,” Fjord reassures him.

He doesn’t believe it, but he wants to so he keeps his mouth shut.

“There’s a spell, I’m not quite powerful enough to cast it. You send a short message to someone on the same plane as you, they can reply. I can’t cast it, but I know plenty of clerics. What if we go back to Nicodranas? I can ask one of them to cast it on your family and maybe we can get the message through that you’re alive and need help and-,” Fjord is putting a plan together as he’s saying it.

“NO!”

Fjord startles and goes silent.

“Sorry, I-, I don’t want them to know what I’ve done. That I failed. Or that I defied Her will.”

“If you don’t mind my saying,” he puts in a pause for Caduceus to react.

He nods in a ‘go on’ gesture.

“If you don’t mind my saying I don’t think there was a way for you to succeed here. You didn’t stand a chance of fighting off the blight and you must have been scared and desperate so you made a pact to save your life. I think your family would understand.”

“Probably,” he mutters.

“They would,” he insists, “a little bit of necromancy doesn’t condemn you.”

“I wouldn’t call it ‘a little,’” he continues trying to deflect.

“Hey, listen to me, _they would_.”

Caduceus sighs and shifts the conversation, “So what now?”

“Well that depends,” he tips Caduceus’s chin up with two crooked fingers to bring him out of hiding his face in his knees, “how do you feel about Nicodranas?”

“I’ve never seen the ocean.”

“Well I guess that settles it then.”


End file.
